


Consider the Ducks

by asynje



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asynje/pseuds/asynje
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How does one talk about those things that are not given a name? Two friends have a conversation about ducks and the nature of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consider the Ducks

**Author's Note:**

> Referring to experiences not completely in accordance with the Laws and Customs among the Eldar.  
> Beta'ed by [mrkinch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mrkinch/profile)

He is sitting on the stone steps leading up to his own chambers, gazing at the stars. As I approach, he turns slightly to look at me and I incline my head in greeting. “May I join you, my friend?” I ask and pause, one foot already at the bottom step. If he wishes not for company, I shall leave him be and he knows this. But he indicates with a hand that I am free to sit beside him and so I sit down, sighing as I too lift my eyes to the sky.

So brilliant are the stars tonight, plentiful in the firmament. The heavens are a fine canopy for the festivities that have taken place this day; festivities that will, judging from the sound of the distant singing, not stop any time soon. Still, first he and then I slipped away unnoticed, he to find solitude, I to make sure that he will also find rest this night

The light of Aman is as strong as ever, making his radiant face glow gently in the dusk. It is never dimmed, never veiled. But his eyes, so like the stars above us, are weary tonight. Ancient. Sorrowful.   
I saw it at the feast and as he looked to me now I saw it again.

We sit in silence for a while, gazing at the stars. 

“Next year, mayhap we should forgo the dressing of the wells and springs,” I finally say. He turns his head slightly to look at me. The sweet scent of wine on his breath tells me that he has partaken more freely of the libations this eve than he is wont to do, but I begrudge him not. Not tonight.

“Nay,” he says. “It is tradition and a beautiful one at that. It would be missed.”

I shrug slightly. “Not overmuch, I think,” I reply. And then I add, for our friendship is such that we may be plain with one another, “If it pains you, it is a small sacrifice.”

Now he turns fully to look at me. “Do not take that simple joy from the people of Imladris for my sake,” he says. “The memories crowd me tonight and thus I sought the silence of stars above and the grass and stone below, but the memories would come with or without the blossoms and ribbons.” He puts a warm hand on my forearm. “But I thank you all the same.” After a pause, he adds, “Was it that easy to tell?” 

I smile at him and say, “Nay, my friend. I daresay none are the wiser at the feast.” But we have known each other for a long time and I know that the Dressing of the Springs brings thoughts with it of the Gates of Summer and the red dawn. And the fall.

Glorfindel seldom speaks of these things with anyone, not even me. But from what little I know there is no doubt that some of those memories are not of shadow and flame but instead of lost and missed friends. 

Men often think that Elves do not grieve losses. Partings. Deaths. After all, we know that we shall see one another again in the Blessed Realm. But we do grieve. The years can be very long when one who has been beside you and shared joys and sorrows with you is no longer there. When you can no longer turn and say, “Look, that must be the first sheen of green to grace the beeches this year,” or “Listen, a nightingale.” When you can no longer share a kiss and the sweet mingling of breath with one to whom you have cleaved. How I know that grief, that longing. And there is no doubt that my friend, my seneschal; my noble warrior knows it too. Like water seeks water, sorrow seeks those that would recognize it for what it is.

“Is there aught I can do?” I ask. I half expect him to tell me not to act the Healer with him, but instead he nods. “Would you rebraid my hair?” he asks. I am surprised at the request, but I nod my assent and rise so I can move behind him. Seated two steps further up, I guide him to lean against my legs with my hands on his shoulders and slowly set about freeing his hair from clips and pins and ties. “You are well-named, my friend,” I say as I can finally comb his hair through with my fingers, lifting it from the nape of his neck to let the cool evening wind touch his skin. My voice is soft, for this is just as much healer’s work as is the brewing of tisanes and the applying of bandages. He chuckles and says, “So I am told,” as if my comment was witty and novel, not trite and oft-repeated. 

His body is heavy and warm against my legs and I too find stillness inside of me as I slowly comb through his hair with my fingers. I have deposited the small heap of glittering adornments and bands in his lap and over his shoulder I can see him play with them idly, letting them dance between his long fingers. 

I part his hair in sections and begin to work the first braid, thick and even at the back of his head. “I am afraid it will be less elaborate than what you arrived with, my friend,” I say, apologetically. “For all that I am nimble-fingered, I cannot seem to move beyond the practical and simple in this matter.” I feel more than hear that he chuckles, and then he says,” I do not expect you to gift me with a lover’s braid, Elrond –“ And then he stops and draws in a breath. I let one hand fall to his shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze. Yet he is still contrite and says as much, and so I repeat the sentiment, in words this time. “I took no offence, Glorfindel. Truly, even if I look hard, there is none to find. Peace.”

He pats my leg and then returns to his contemplation of the small, glittery stack of hair things. For a while we sit in silence. Then he asks, “Do you ever not miss her?”

We rarely speak of these matters, my friend and I. He knows my heart and most of the reasoning behind my actions. Still, I believe that he is not so much asking about the state of my heart as he is trying to tease out the state of his own. 

I am a Healer. There are many unspoken things that in time become plain to me, and so I answer him without reserve. “No. Never. The longing for my silver queen is ever in my heart and mind. She is my moon and I am her tide, waxing and waning together, apart but always bound. Always looking to one another.”

Of course, I can only speak for myself, but the thought that she too feels this, that she too longs for my presence as I long for hers, makes the separation somewhat easier to bear. 

He nods, as if I only said what he expected.

Then he slowly says, “I know that of which you speak. That – longing.”

He is still looking at his hands, their movements growing slower now. That he speaks of it like this tells much of the nature of the beast. Longing, not love. 

For all things there is a time it seems. I believe that he has been moved by the silence we are sharing here on the stone steps beneath the canopy of stars. Moved by the memories crowding him, called forth by bright ribbons twirled between slender fingers and garland-crowned heads close to one another, sharing sweet secrets. The fine wine served with this evening’s meal also plays a part, I’ll wager. All of this has coaxed out what centuries of friendship has not yet revealed. For all things there is a time. 

So I say, still gently, still softly, “But you never told the one you cared for that you felt this way, did you?” All the while, my fingers are braiding his hair, giving us both a reason for not looking into each other’s eyes. He needs it more than me, I believe, but still it is not unwelcome. For in all our long years of friendship, we have never spoken of this. 

His answer is so quiet I almost miss it. “No. No I did not. It would not have been – “ He pauses. “It would not have been right,” he finally says and this could mean so many things. 

But I am a Healer. The hurt of the mind speaks to me as well as the hurts of the body. Little can I do against that which festers inside another’s soul – alas! – But still I know it for what it is.  

I lean down to take a small handful of pins and bands and as I pin his braids at the back of his head in place I begin to speak again, giving voice to thoughts I too have shared with no one. 

“I believe,” I say and then immediately correct myself, “Nay, say rather, that I have come to believe, that love is never evil. Not love that is true to itself. It may be misguided or poorly timed. It may run against propriety and other such matters, but in and of itself, I do not believe that love is ever anything but good. In essence, mind. There might very well be reasons that it cannot be acted upon but those do not taint it, they merely constrain it.”

And this I do believe. At the very core, the Song itself is love. Love that seeks nothing for itself, but only wishes for joy unto another. The red roses of joy for you, my love, I’ll keep the thorns for me.

I make quick work of the second to last braid, dangling in front of his left ear, and his profile is so still and so drawn that I must carry on. My words have found the soreness and now they must help ease it that the wound beneath may heal.

“Some of us do not marry, this is true. Some never meet the one that was to be theirs. Mayhap they will meet in the Blessed Realm? Who is to say? Others -” here I pause. In truth I have only known one other of which this was the case, but since it is very likely that he was not the only one for whom this held true, I continue, “Others have held back out of respect for the laws and customs of our people.” A pause and then I add, gravely.  “Now, I do not say that these matters should be disregarded.” I am certain that Glorfindel will believe no such thing of me, but still I feel that it must be said. “Not at all. They are the foundation upon which we make our homes and lives. However, it seems to me, that it is a sad thing to deny happiness where it will hurt none. To deny connection and company to those who would seek it. With each other.”

For all that I say that we have a friendship where plain talk is valued I fear that my speech is becoming overly evasive. But I can tell from the softening of my friend’s jaw that he understands my meaning. And furthermore, that he is taking no offence at what I am implying. 

There we might have let it rest. But I have warmed to the topic now, “Just consider the ducks.” 

He looks over his shoulder and both his voice and his eyes reveal his confusion as he repeats my words. “The ducks?” 

Clearly, he has not been able to follow the leap in my thoughts and so I hasten to explain. “Yes, Glorfindel. The ducks. Are they not very like unto us?” 

He stares at me and then he laughs, letting his head fall back. I smile, for I admit that my simile was partly chosen in hopes of bringing about this very reaction. My friend composes himself and says, seriously, “Yes, I see what you mean, Elrond. None can look at a duck and fail to see the comparison. The lilting voice, the graceful movements, the –” I never hear what third attribute of the duck to my friend seem most alike to the Firstborn, for he has once again been overtaken with laughter. 

When he finally calms, I continue. “I was thinking more of their loyalty. And their love.” Now he becomes quiet, looking at me. “Once, two or three Great Years back, there was in the pond behind the paddock a duck couple, both drakes.” I pause and add, “Did you never notice them?” He shakes his head and admits that he has paid little attention to the fowl in that particular part of the realm, quite purposefully making it out to sound as if he has a running tally of every other feathered being within the bounds of Imladris. This time it is my turn to smile. From his answering smile I surmise that he too had hoped to lighten the mood a little and so I carry on, in a light tone of voice. “There were plenty of other ducks that year and it struck me that these drakes chose not of necessity but out of inclination.” 

He shakes his head at this and I pull gently at the half-finished braid between my fingers to bid him sit still. 

“Why should it not be so? The creatures of Arda are not in the habit of acting against their very nature. They do not doubt their own reasons and actions. They merely are. They merely act. And if they act in accordance with their nature, their actions cannot possibly be seen as going against the order of things.”Again he makes as if to shake his head. I pull the braid a little harder and am rewarded by his stillness.

“And if the creatures of Arda are not acting against the order of things, if these ducks were merely following the path that lay before them, then who is to say that this may not be the case also for some of the Firstborn?” I ask, my voice gentle once again.

“Because it is not so,” my old friend answers, his voice calm, his face impassive. “In all our tales and lore, there is no mentioning of anything like what you have here described. It is not sung of. It does not exist. Not among the High Elves and not among the Dark Elves. Love is once, forever and always, always between a male and a female.”

He has searched. And I have not known. I am counted among the Wise and I have already laid out the virtue of the Healer’s perception, but much as I suspected this was at the root of the matter, never had I realized that my old friend was searching for knowledge. Alone. 

Would that I had known, but things happen when they do and there is little we can do to change that. All we can do is be ready to catch the silver fish of chance when it leaps from the currents of the white-decked stream.

So here we are. Talking beneath the stars. Catching those silver fish. 

He continues. “Birds be what they may, but surely for an Eldar to – surely things must be for us as they are writ down.” I hold up my hand but he continues. “To act out of tune with this, would that not be to introduce discord in the very song of Ilúvatar? Would it not- ” 

But I interrupt him, before he can finish his argument. “Why call it discord?” I ask, earnestly. “Could it not rather be – a – a variation? To enhance the beauty of the Song? Not love alone, but love as it is in all its forms?”

And if nothing else, at least I am myself convinced by this. When Maglor spoke to me of music, this was what he said. That one must practice and practice and practice and learn the songs by heart. And then one must listen – really listen – and play, not what one has learned, but the echoing song, the one rising up from inside, the song not by the heart but of the heart. 

And then he would have me practice scales till my fingers were numb and my mind number. But I digress.

Not discord. A variation on a theme. Why should the Greatest Song be any different from other songs in this? Why should not love be love?

I pin the last of his braids, just as he says, “I loved him so. In my heart. And I never told him. That is my one regret.” He takes my breath away with these few and simple words. So sorrowful and yet so strong, said aloud for the first time. And then he turns to smile at me, and the light of Aman is once again mingling with that light in his eyes that is his very own. Mirth and joy. Never could his forehead be touched long by sadness; such is the virtue of one who has been granted passage back from the Blessed Realm. “That and not having someone as sure-fingered as the Peredhel to pin my hair that fateful morn.”

I laugh and shake my head. If he is well enough to jest with this of all things -

“I shall not ask you again, my friend,” he adds and this makes my laugh wilt and leaves me bewildered.

“Wherefore should I not wish to braid your – “ And then I see the connection and stop. “Ah.” I say. “Hmm.” He is looking at me and I do believe that there is still a hint of mirth in his eyes. Wise they call me and yet there are things that I do not see, connections I do not make, a thing that is often a cause of mirth among those who know me well.

It is ever the custom among our people for young lovers to pay great attention to each other’s hair. In some families, such behaviour is not allowed till the formal betrothal has taken place. There are some, even here in Imladris, who feel that it is improper for such displays to take place anywhere outside the privacy of the bedchamber of married couples. The way those in love caress one another’s hair does often seem a private matter.

And yet, friends braid one another’s hair out of respect and the love that lies between friends. And warriors do the same, out of necessity and out of that love that grows between those who must trust one another completely

I shake my head. “There is no reason for that,” I say. “Nothing has changed.”

He smiles at this. “And were I an unwed Elven maid? Would you still find it seemly then?” I know he is teasing me lightly, since none would look to beloved Glorfindel and see any likeness with a young maiden, but there is something more behind his words and so I answer in earnest. For I would not have him think that his admission has marred our friendship; that I would sing his praises in the light of day and shun his company by nightfall. I know my friend and he is noble and kind. He would never ask for what is not mine to give. This changes nothing.

“Yes, I would. If she was asking for no more than I could give - for no more than what is mine to give - then I would not hesitate. Touch is as important as sun and water to all living things. To wit, if hurt and alone, we all put our arms around ourselves. Firstborn, Men, Dwarves –”  I pause. “Well, I am not certain about the Children of Aule, but I would find it surprising if they did not act in accordance with the rest of us. We hold ourselves and we rock ourselves and so we find comfort. To withhold that for no other reason than the perception of others – that is folly, Glorfindel!”

He is looking at me steadily, and perhaps he can gauge from the passion in my voice that these thoughts were not born in the single instant of our discussion. Perhaps he might even remember whispers, back in those dark and dreadful days when the Darkness hung heavy above us and our King would sometimes send for me in the dead of night. He too never asked for more than was mine to give, and he only asked in the surety that I would not hesitate to tell him no, should that be my answer.

“Wise they call you and wise you are, my friend,” he finally says and then he surprises me by getting up only to kneel in front of me, bowing low over my hand to ghost a kiss across my knuckles. “My lord, my liege.” 

I shake my head. “Don’t,” I say, wearily. “I am not a Lord. I am Master of this realm and that is all. I carry one burden; that must be enough.”

“It is the truth,” he answers as he rises. As always.

I get up as well and shake out the folds of my robe. “Will you return with me to the feast?” I ask. Judging from the distant sounds of song and laughter, there are no signs of ebb in that ocean.

He shakes his head. “Nay. I have had my part of the wine. And then some,” he says, sounding a little rueful. “I shall retire.”

He bows to me and I take a step forward that I may embrace him. We are old friends, he and I, and nothing has passed between us this night to change that. 

Then I turn and walk slowly back toward the sound of song and music as he makes his way up the steps. On my way I pass many a pool and many a fountain strewn with ribbons and blossoms. It is true. It is traditional and very beautiful, the Dressing of the Springs.

I bend low to scoop up a handful of wet blooms from a small fountain. The yellow elanor fills my hand and on a whim I run my hand through my own hair, lighting it with small stars.

I rejoin the people of Imladris and spend the rest of that night contemplating the nature of singing and joyous dancing. And the many kinds of love that are part of the One Love that is Song.


End file.
